


fiery halo and dull gemstones

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Season 4 Spoilers, The Lonely - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24653593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: Martin cuts his hair.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 11
Kudos: 87





	fiery halo and dull gemstones

**His ginger locks**

**burned bright like fire**

**against the sun**

**and his green eyes**

**shone like gemstones**

**washed by the gentle sea foam**

**But now the hair is sheared**

**and the gemstones are dull**

**filed down ruthlessly**

**until all that’s left**

**is the cold, vast nothingness**

**akin to the ocean**

**with its rolling waves**

**lapping at the fine sand**

**as though it could ever fully embrace it**

**And oh,**

**how calm**

**and soothing**

**and quiet**

**and nice**

**and safe**

**and Lonely**

**it is here.**

**\- Martin Blackwood**

\---

Martin looks in the mirror and it takes him a moment to recognize the man in the reflection.

Is that _him?_

But no, of course it’s him. It’s a _mirror_. Who else could it be.

He stares, though, long and hard. Looks at those cloudy blue eyes, the faded freckles scattered across the nose and cheeks, the curls that fall over the forehead.

He could blame it on sleepiness, but he feels wide awake. Blaming it on exhaustion would be fooling himself, and nowadays he’s had quite enough of that.

He pulls on a lock of hair that’s grown long enough to tickle the bridge of his nose, runs his fingers up and through his hair, lets his hand grip a handful. Feels the tug on his scalp, the softness of the strands on his fingers. How it curls and poofs around his face and head, wild and untamed.

He looks down at the hair cream on his sink, the one he uses every day to fix the curls into a more cohesive state, makes them look remotely presentable. But now.

Now, even thinking about slicking it back feels like too much. Taking the time to carefully style it only to then double and triple check how they look before leaving the house and after he arrives at the Institute, like he does every day, feels like a waste of time. He stares at it, eyes unfocused. He can barely read the name on the label.

Instead, he opens the cabinet under the sink, and grabs for the hair trimmer he hasn’t used in years.

\---

“Ah, _Martin_.”

Martin barely moves when Peter materializes next to him, the usual thick fog rolling off from the inside of his overcoat and curling up around Martin’s ankles almost protectively. It’s cold, and it sends a shiver up his spine. Martin glares at Peter, but there’s no heat to it, no real intent behind it besides an automatic aggravation at seeing him, at having his work interrupted.

Peter steps forward, reaches out, and runs his fingers through Martin’s buzz cut. Martin’s done that enough times to know how it feels; soft, a bit prickly. Soothing. His hand is big and cold against his scalp, but Martin only feels exasperation at the touch.

Peter hums.

“I must admit, I did rather like your curls, but this does suit you. You look very handsome.”

“Please don’t touch me, Peter.”

Peter steps back, hands in the air almost mockingly, a small smile on his lips. Amused.

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and stares at Martin, and Martin stares back. Watching. Waiting.

Peter’s smile widens.

“What?” Martin asks, annoyed, and Peter really and _truly_ smiles at that, pearly teeth peeking from behind his bushy white beard.

“You’re doing _wonderfully_ , Martin. Do keep it up.”

And with that, he’s gone, the fog thickening around him until it dissipates in the blink of an eye, leaving Martin once again alone in his office.

He clicks his tongue, sighs, and gets back to work.

\---

Jon almost doesn’t recognize him, at first.

He’s just walked through the front doors of the Institute, a bag from the nearest Tesco in his hands—deep down he knows it’s stupid to keep fooling himself into believing crisps and a sandwich can quench his hunger anymore, but he’s still trying his damnest to keep the pretense anyway—when he feels a sudden prickling feeling on the back of his mind. He stops dead in his tracks the middle of the lobby, looking around quizzically, and it takes him a couple of beats to fully realize what it is, exactly, that he’s Seeing—or rather, _who_.

Talking to Rosie in low tones, just a few feet away, his back turned to him, is Martin.

And his hair is _gone_.

“…Martin?”

Martin doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch or stop his train of thought, almost as if he didn’t hear him, but Rosie does, and she nudges Martin and points at Jon. Martin turns around, and Jon’s heart _stops._

“Oh. Hello, Jon,” he says, voice flat. Jon curses softly under his breath.

“Martin, your… your _hair_ ,” Jon says, coming closer, hand outstretched.

“Yes, doesn’t it look _nice_ , Sims?” Rosie says pointedly, making a face at Jon from behind Martin’s back, where he can’t see the look she’s shooting the Archivist. Like she’s begging him to have some tact for once and not say anything inappropriate and thoughtless. “I rather like it.”

But Jon almost completely ignores her, stopping just a couple of feet away from Martin, hesitating when Martin takes half a step back. His hand drops. Martin takes a small breath, puts on a polite face.

“Yes, I decided to change it up. Fixing it every morning was getting rather bothersome, if I‘m being honest.”

“ _Bothersome_ , you… your _curls_ …” Jon laments, fingers twitching with the want to run them through the ginger fuzz on the top of Martin’s head. He finally locks eyes with Martin and before he can stop himself he’s inhaling sharply, quickly. Shocked.

Martin’s eyes are _foggy_ , and where they once were a beautiful green and golden hue they’re now icy blue. Vacant. Distant. Empty, almost… almost like the sea.

“ _What has he done to you?_ ” Jon whispers, horrified, and Martin’s cheeks turn pink as he grimaces. Even his freckles seem duller, somehow. Washed-out, like Martin’s spent hours under the shower, rubbing his skin raw until they became a mere afterthought instead of the usual smattering of a thousand constellations in wild and beautiful patterns across his body.

Almost as if he’s trying to get rid of everything that makes Martin, well, _Martin._

Jon _hates_ it.

“If we’re all done here,” Martin says pointedly, startling Jon out of his thoughts; he didn’t notice he was silently staring. Martin turns back to Rosie and tucks a file under his arm. “I’ll phone you from my desk in a bit, Rosie, thank you again,” he says, walking off before Rosie can reply, marching up the stairs and straight into Peter’s office, where he slams the door shut.

Jon stays there, frozen in place, watching him go. Feeling like someone’s just ripped his heart straight out of his chest.

Regretting not stopping Martin, but wondering if his hand would phase right through him if he tried.

\---

It’s the second week in the safe house, nearly a month after Jon pulled him from the Lonely, and Martin wakes up with a tickling in his face. He scrunches up his nose, furrows his brows.

He hears Jon giggling, and feels a finger brushing a lock of hair away from the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry,” Jon says, and Martin opens his eyes. Jon is staring at him, a soft look in his eyes, his cheek smooched against the pillow. It’s light outside, but the curtains are drawn and the room is pleasantly engulfed in a soft half-light. “Didn’t mean to wake you there. You can go back to sleep if you want.”

Martin hums, shuffles closer until he’s hiding his face against Jon’s chest, arms wrapped around him. Jon pulls the duvet over the two of them and goes back to running his fingers through Martin’s hair.

“Comfortable?” He asks, and Martin nuzzles closer in lieu of actually responding. Jon laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He keeps petting his hair, the pad of his fingers and the tip of his nails occasionally scratching his scalp, combing his curls back and forth. Martin hums.

“S’good,” he mumbles. Jon makes a low, questioning noise. “Feels nice. Your hand in my hair.”

“Well, your hair feels rather nice, Martin. I like petting it, if you couldn’t tell.”

Martin huffs a laugh. “I suspected it, maybe.”

He looks up, finally, and Jon is looking down at him, eyes crinkled at the corners, looking so soft and gentle and Martin is so damn in love with this man.

“I’m glad you grew it back,” Jon says, and Martin closes his eyes when Jon burrows his nose in his hair, kisses the top of his head. “I really like your curls, Martin.”

“More than you like me?” He asks, teasing. Jon laughs, and they both lean towards each other to meet for a brief kiss.

“No. I do like your soft ginger locks, but I rather _love_ you, Martin, in case you couldn’t tell. Curls or no curls.”

Martin smiles, feels his cheeks warming up with the telltale of a blush. “Aw. Love you too, you mushy sap.”

And with that he cuddles back into Jon’s chest, takes a deep breath, and relaxes as Jon goes back to petting his hair.

He’s warm. Content. It almost feels like nothing can touch them here, under the covers, hidden inside these walls. He knows it’s not true, but just for a moment, he lets himself believe.

And right outside, the sun slowly rises over the hills, announcing the start of a new day.


End file.
